


He's All That

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Happy Ending, M/M, Mary is an asshole, Twitter, balletlock, rugby!john, she's all that - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the school it-boy, John Watson, gets dumped by his girlfriend, he's issued a challenge. The stakes? The title of Prom King. The objective? Make Sherlock Holmes popular.</p><p>It was a bet John couldn't lose. There's just one complication: John didn't expect to fall in love. (An adaptation of 1999's She's All That.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

It was senior year, and John Watson was the king of campus. He was the rugby captain/class president who everyone wanted to date or be best friends with. He had only a few weeks left till he graduated. Everything in his world was perfect. Except…

“It’s not working, John,” said Mary Morstan, his girlfriend.

John blinked. “ _What?_ ”

Mary sighed. “I met someone during spring break. David’s a really great guy.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. “But – Mary-”

“Oh, don’t worry, darling. You and I can still go to prom. After all, the star rugby player and the head cheerleader? It’s just expected, right?”

John shook his head. “Are you joking? You think I’d still want to go to prom with you after you hooked up with another guy and dumped me?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Well, thanks, but no thanks. Have a nice life, _Mary_ ,” John spat, tromping away. Mary’s jaw dropped, offended.

His mates Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade caught up with him immediately. They were all on the rugby team together. “Ooh, that’s rough. Sorry, Watson,” said Stamford. He was portly and wore glasses. He played goalie.

“I never did like her,” Lestrade added. Lestrade was tall and sturdy, and even though he was only eighteen, his hair was dark silver.

John shook his head. “Whatever.”

“You’re still coming to prom though, yeah?” said Mike. “You’re a shoo-in for king. If you don’t go, then the only other choice on the ballot is-”

“Victor Trevor,” said another voice as a tall, handsome blonde guy appeared. “Oops. That’s me.” The guy smiled cutely.

“Hello, Trevor,” said John politely. Victor Trevor was the yearbook editor and was _extremely_ gay. He was also the school gossip and was known for being very verbally cutting. John didn’t like him very much. Not because he was gay, obviously. Plenty of his friends were; even John’s own sister was. John just didn’t like him that much because Victor was kind of mean. However, he was still very popular and could easily win Prom King if John dropped out. John didn’t care about the title, but he’d run if it meant Victor didn’t get it.

“Hey there, golden boy. So…bad break up, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” said John.

“Of course, _I_ heard about Mary and David the minute I stepped onto campus. Scandalous, isn’t it?”

“What do you want?” John sighed.

“Honey, your reputation’s seriously on the line,” Victor tutted. “You need to get with someone soon.”

“I’ve only just broken up with Mary, how can my ‘reputation’ already be damaged?” John inquired.

Victor whipped out his phone. “7:51 AM. Tweet from Sarah Sawyer: ‘OMG. Can’t believe our captain’s single. How sad.’ 7:53 AM. Tweet from Sebastian Wilkes: ‘The bloke Mary’s fucking now is loaded. He drives a Ferrari!’ 7:54 AM-”

“Okay, fine, so news travels fast. Big deal,” John scowled. “Mary’s a two-timing…I dunno. I don’t need her.”

“Yeah! John Watson could get anyone at this school to go to prom with him!” Lestrade declared.

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Anyone?”

“They don’t call him ‘Three Campuses’ Watson for nothing!” Stamford added confidently.

“Guys…” John rolled his eyes, embarrassed.

“Anyone John dated could easily boot Mary Morstan from her spot as queen bee,” said Lestrade.

Victor smiled. “Why don’t we put that to the test?”

John raised his eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s make a bet,” said Victor. “I pick someone in the school. You turn on that ol’ Watson charm, raise their status enough to win them the title of prom royalty, and I’ll give the rugby team the leading spread in the yearbook…the one that’s usually reserved for the cheerleaders.”

“And if I lose?” said John.

“You forfeit your crown to me,” said Victor smugly.

“You’re so on,” said Stamford.

“Mike!” John scolded.

“What’s the matter?” said Stamford. “You can totally do this, John.”

“The _leading spread_ ,” Lestrade reiterated.

“Well…”

“Unless…you’re too scared,” said Victor, smirking.

John glared at him. No one called John Watson a coward. “Fine. You’re on.”

“Excellent,” said Victor, grinning like a hyena with its prey in sight. “And I know the perfect candidate.” He pointed across the campus.

John turned to follow his finger. His eyes fell upon Victor’s choice and widened in shock. “What? You mean…”

* * *

The limber, lanky boy with the dark curls was stretching his dancer’s legs against a tree, when he heard footsteps approach him. He turned to see that it was Sally Donovan with her boyfriend Philip Anderson.

“Hey, freak,” said Sally. “You know I was just reading about that Swan Lake thing. You know the main girl dies in it, right? And the prince never even knows she’s the real one. Just goes to show you, right? How someone could just die and no one would even care?”

“Yeah. Kinda like you,” said Anderson, grinning nastily.

Sherlock silently put his glasses on and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Have you been cheating on Sally long, Philip?” he muttered, eyes turned to the ground.

Anderson blinked. “What?”

“You’re a sex addict and are never truly relaxed unless you’ve had a shag the previous night. You’re at ease right now, so you obviously had sex. Sally only flew back from her family's vacation in France late last night as per her Twitter update and stayed at home to sleep for today’s classes, so you must have had sex with someone else.”

Anderson grew flustered. “What?! No! I didn’t-” He looked at Sally. “Babe, I would never-!”

Sally squawked indignantly, slapping him sharply. She stomped away, with Anderson trailing after her, pathetically making excuses. Sherlock smirked…but it didn’t last long.

Sherlock Holmes knew the whole school hated him. Hell, according to his older brother, the entire world hated him. He was the skinny pale science nerd who was the only male in the ballet program. He made deductions about people and frowned and sat alone at lunch. He didn’t have friends.

Well, except…

“Don’t listen to a word they say, Sherlock Holmes,” said Molly Hooper, coming up behind him. Molly was his best friend, and made all the costumes for the drama and dance productions. They’d been friends for as long as Sherlock could remember. When they were thirteen, Molly had had a crush on him, but Sherlock had confessed to her that he liked boys. She’d been the first person he’d come out to. From then on they shared everything and were incredibly close. Like a brother and a sister.

Irene Adler flanked him on his other side, scowling after the mean pair. “They’re just jealous of you, darling. Don’t pay them any attention.” Irene was usually Sherlock’s leading lady in the ballet productions. They were both geniuses, talented, and incredibly gay. They should have repelled each other like matching ends of two magnets. Instead they were the best of pals. Strange.

Sherlock shrugged. “The meager insults of idiots don’t bother me. I’m used to it.”

Molly hugged him tightly. “You’re amazing, Sherlock. We love you, right, Irene?”

Irene gasped. “No. Frickin’. Way.”

“What?” Molly asked.

“ _John. Watson._ Is looking over here…” Irene’s head slowly turned to look at her ballet partner. “…at _Sherlock_.”

* * *

“ _Sherlock Holmes_?” said John incredulously, staring at the boy in question. Everyone knew Sherlock. He was a wickedly talented dancer (or so John had heard) and a brainiac to boot. “He _hates_ everyone!” John protested.

“Oh, please, honey. I’m making it easy on you. He’s gorgeous. You can remake him no problem.”

“The problem isn’t his looks,” said John. Sherlock was quite handsome, but that wasn’t the point.

“Well then what is? ‘Three Campuses’,” Victor added.

“Well for one thing, he’s a _guy_ ,” said John drily.

“They let same-sex couples be prom royalty here,” said Victor, shrugging nonchalantly. It was true, two years prior, two girls had served as the prom sovereigns.

“But I’m not gay,” John argued.

Victor smiled. “So what? It’s just a bet…right?”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay. Fine.” He hoisted his backpack and trudged across campus.

* * *

“Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Molly squeaked.

“Why’s he doing that?” Sherlock said, frozen in place. Was the jock going to beat him up?

“I don’t know!” Irene screeched.

“Everybody act natural!” Molly ordered.

John reached their position and stood right in front of them. “Hello, um…” He was struggling for their names.

“I’m Irene,” said the brunette, eagerly shaking John’s hand.

“Molly,” said the redhead, nodding and smiling nervously.

“Hi.” John smiled politely at the both of them. Then he looked at the boy right in front of him.

Sherlock was still paralyzed, too scared to move. Irene nudged him sharply. “I’m Sherlock,” Sherlock blurted. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John smiled at him. “I know. Hey, I was wondering, would you want to-”

Suddenly the bell rang and Sherlock turned away, quickly heading for the front door. John was left standing there with his mouth hanging open, looking surprised. Irene made an affronted noise and hurried after Sherlock.

“Um…he’s shy,” said Molly to John. “Heh…bye.” She scurried after her friends, leaving John by himself.

John heard a chuckle as Victor came up behind him, slinging his arm over John’s shoulder. “Good luck, honey. You’re gonna need it.”

* * *

“Sherlock, what the hell was that?!” Irene practically shrieked at him as they headed for their first class. “Didn’t you even know what he wanted?”

“No, and I don’t _want_ to know,” said Sherlock, speed-walking. Luckily Irene could keep up with him in her high heels. Poor little Molly was panting, practically running to keep up.

“I think he was going to ask you out!” Irene said.

“ _What?!_ Irene, don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock said.

“Look, smarty, I know it when I see someone who likes someone else and John Watson likes _you_!” Irene insisted.

“You’re wrong. He’s straight, and besides, he has a girlfriend.”

“No he doesn’t. Mary dumped him this morning. It’s all over Twitter,” Molly pointed out.

“Maybe you’re his ‘gay thing’,” said Irene. “Everyone has someone they’d go over to the other side for. For instance, mine would be you, if you weren’t gay too.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “Well, _I_ don’t have a...'straight' thing!”

“What about Beyonce?” Molly suggested.

Sherlock had to give her that. “Well anyway, it wouldn’t matter if John liked men or not,” the dancer hissed as they sat down at their desks. “Because no one in their right mind would ever like _me_.”


	2. The Jock And The Nerd

Harry was waiting for John when he came home. She was sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for him. “Too cliché?” she asked.

“You saw Twitter, then,” said John.

Harry nodded. Harry had been expelled from their school for a couple of years and was homeschooled online. “Just for the record…I always thought Mary was a bitch anyway.”

“Yeah, well…” John gratefully took the ice cream from her and plopped down on the couch. “That’s all over with now.”

“So…who’s next on John Watson’s list of lovely ladies?” Harry asked.

“I…I don’t have one,” said John.

“Oh come on. You have girls flinging themselves at you constantly. Not one has caught your fancy? Unless….” Harry gasped. “You’ve finally decided to embrace your bisexual self and start dating blokes?”

“I told you that in confidence,” said John, shoving a spoonful of chocolate ice cream in his mouth. John wasn’t officially “out” to anyone yet except his sister.

Harry laughed. “I should have baked cookies. Then I could have said, ‘welcome to the dark side – we have cookies’. Oh well. Welcome to the dark side – we have popcorn!”

John sighed. “To tell you the truth…yes. There’s a guy. Sort of. But when I tried to talk to him, he just…disappeared.”

“Someone turned down ‘Three Campuses’ Watson?” Harry gasped mockingly. “My God, stop the presses!”

“I just mentioned one day that I dated this one girl from this one school, and another girl from another school, and suddenly I’m stuck with that God awful nickname. You all make me sound like some man-whore!” John griped.

“Never, brother dear, never,” said Harry, patting his shoulder consolingly. “So, this guy…is he special?”

John smiled ruefully. “You could say that.”

“What’s he into?” Harry said.

John shrugged. “He’s a dancer.”

“A dancer?”

“Yeah. Ballet.”

“Invite him over to watch some…dancing movies,” said Harry. She waggled her eyebrows. “You could watch _Dirty Dancing_. Give you some ideas.”

John rolled his eyes and flicked a piece of popcorn at her. “He’d never fall for that. He’s a genius.”

“A genius, huh? Why don’t you pretend like you’re failing something and get him to tutor you,” Harry suggested.

“Yeah…maybe…” said John.

“By the way…have you gotten any acceptance letters yet?” Harry asked tentatively.

John nodded solemnly. “Couple.”

“You know you’ll get sports scholarships, Johnny. You’re the best bloody rugby player the school’s had in years.”

“I know,” groaned John. “I _have_ to go to medical school, Harry. Otherwise I’ll have to join the bloody army.”

“You _can’t_ , Johnny,” said Harry, her eyes big and wide. Fearful.

“I’ll try not to, sis,” said John. He looked down at his melted ice cream thoughtfully. “I’ll try.”

* * *

“Two dozen confetti cupcakes with purple icing,” said Sherlock, writing down the information. “That will come to 25 pounds…yes, they shall be ready in time for little Archie’s birthday party on Saturday. Thank you for contacting the Baker Street Bakery. Have a fine afternoon.” Sherlock hung up the phone and sighed. “Bloody Mummy and this bloody job…” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh, now, Sherlock dear, don’t be so cross,” said his boss, Mrs. Hudson, coming by and patting him on the cheek. Mummy and Mrs. Hudson were old friends, and when Mrs. Hudson had mentioned not having anyone at the store to take orders, Mummy had happily volunteered him. Now Sherlock was stuck at this bakery every day after school till 6. At least he had weekends off. And Mrs. Hudson was nice enough.

“And don’t forget your headpiece!” Mrs. Hudson reminded him cheerfully as she went back in the kitchen.

Sherlock groaned and reluctantly put on his silly plush cupcake headband, which fastened under his chin with an elastic strap. He heard a bell tinkle as the front door of the shop opened, and Sherlock forced himself to look at least approachable as he greeted the new customer. “Hello and welcome to-”

Sherlock froze.

The customer smiled. “Hi there.”

It was John.

Sherlock’s stomach flipped over. “Hi,” he muttered, because he had to be polite.

“So we got cut off by the bell this morning,” said John warmly. Probably a trick, Sherlock thought. “I wanted to ask you if you wanted to-”

“No, I can’t tutor you, I have this job on weekdays and ballet rehearsal on Saturdays, and I already know you can’t meet on Sundays because of rugby practice. You might ask Irene Adler, I’m sure she’d be thrilled-”

“Er, no, actually, I’m all set with grades,” John laughed.

“You are? Oh yes, of course. You have to keep up your grades because if you don’t, you won’t be allowed to play rugby and you'll lose potential scholarships for university.”

John blinked. “Yeah. How’d you know about the scholarships?”

“Well that’s obvious. It’s easy to tell by the state of your shoes that you come from a low-income home, therefore one that can’t afford tuition for school. So you need scholarships.”

Oh no. He’d said the wrong thing. John wouldn’t beat him up in his place of work, would he?

To Sherlock’s amazement, John _smiled_.

“Oh yeah,” said the rugby captain. “They said you do that. You can just look at people and know things about them. You’re…kind of amazing, you know that?”

Sherlock blinked. Amazing? Him? John Watson called him amazing?

“Um…what do you want,” Sherlock muttered, staring at his toes to hide his blush.

“I was wondering…a-about dancing,” said John.

Sherlock wasn’t expecting that. “Dancing?”

“Yeah. You know the prom is coming up and I…don’t know how to dance.” John smiled that smile again, the one that did strange things to Sherlock’s heartrate and digestive organs.

“I didn’t expect you to be attending the prom,” Sherlock blurted.

“Oh yeah. I guess everyone heard Mary dumped me,” John laughed, embarrassed.

He admitted that he had been the one to be dismissed. His honesty was refreshing. Or…he was using that to try and win some pity from Sherlock? “So you want dance lessons?” Sherlock said suspiciously.

“Well maybe not so much _lessons_ as…” John shrugged. “I wanna know more about dance.”

“Then watch a documentary. It’s on the…’Netflix and chill’ or whatever you people call it,” said Sherlock icily.

John grinned. “I’m more of a hands on learner.”

Did he just fucking _wink_ at him?

“Why don’t you come to our revue on Friday night?” said a voice. The boys looked up to see that Molly had come in. She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and held out to John. “I have a spare ticket.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said John.

Sherlock glared at Molly over John’s head. She mouthed at him, _What?_

John turned back to smile at Sherlock. “So I’ll see you Friday night then?”

Sherlock scowled at him. John beamed sweetly right back at him. It was a battle, a battle of wills.

Sherlock was the first one to break eye contact, staring off to the side. “Better not be late.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Sherlock waited. John was still there. “Something else you wanted?” he grumbled.

“Oh! Right. Can I have an Oreo cupcake?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes and gave the man his cupcake. John dropped the money in his hands, then, staring directly at Sherlock, took a large bite. “Mmm. Sweet.” He winked. Again. “See you Friday. Oh, and, nice headband.”

Sherlock hoped he wasn’t flushing as hard as he felt he was as the jock left. Molly turned to look at Sherlock, her mouth wide open. “Irene was right. He _does_ like you.”

“Shut up, he does not,” Sherlock muttered, restlessly straightening the napkins.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes right now?” Molly said.

“You think Watson’s so great, you date him,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I don’t like John. _You_ do,” Molly said.

“I don’t even know the man!” Sherlock snapped.

“You will,” Molly grinned. She pulled out her phone. “I’ve got to text Irene about this, she’s going to flip!”

Sherlock buried his face in his hands and groaned.


	3. Romancing The Stone

The show was…surprisingly good. John was impressed. Irene had done an…intense burlesque act that had John’s eyes popping.

But the real attraction was Sherlock.

Sherlock had started out on the empty black stage, clothed in a long-sleeved, plain white tee shirt, and leggings to match. His feet were bare. The white against the dancer's pale skin almost gave the effect that Sherlock was naked. The mental image had the color in John's cheeks rising.

Sherlock was seated on the floor, cross legged, folded in on himself. As the gentle music began, Sherlock looked up, his alabaster skin glowing in the bright spotlight. He extended one long leg, then the other, in a split, and stretched his body like a cat, to his left foot, to his right, then pressed his chest flat to the floor, dragging himself along.

John watched, confused…but curious.

Sherlock rolled over, turning himself into a perfect cylinder, then sat up, pulling his legs together and rotating gracefully on his buttocks. He curled his torso and somehow, bent himself into a handstand, and then skillfully rocked backward to where he was standing upright.

John watched in awe. Did this guy have bones or just elastic in his limbs?

Sherlock flitted and spun and leapt around the stage as light and elegant as a fae sprite. He extended himself on his pointed toes and spun himself around, and around, and around and around and around andaroundandaroundandaround…

John was hypnotized.

Then before he knew it, Sherlock’s piece was done, and the whole ensemble came out to bow.

The audience politely began to applaud. John stood up and whooped, clapping loudly. The cast and a few of the audience members looked at him strangely. John blushed and sat back down. He looked back at the stage.

Sherlock was looking back at him. He was trying to hide a smile.

 _You like compliments. Gotcha_ , thought John.

John came backstage after the show with a pink carnation for Sherlock. “I, um…I hear you people get these things when you perform. I figured roses were too cliché. I thought a dozen might be a little much, but...”

Sherlock actually _smiled_. “It’s perfect. Thank you, John.”

Sherlock’s friends Molly and Irene were watching them, giggling and whispering to each other excitedly.

John shrugged. “Maybe you could see me play rugby sometime.”

“ _Oh my God!_ ” John heard Molly gasp.

“I don’t generally watch…sport things,” said Sherlock.

“I don’t generally watch dance things,” John countered, grinning flirtatiously. “Fair is fair, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock was _blushing_. Yes.

He was interesting. He was like an icicle, all cold and sharp, but just the right words or facial expression made him light up red like Rudolph The Reindeer’s nose. It was kind of…cute.

John realized he was staring and looked away, laughing shyly. Sherlock looked away as well, picked up his glasses from his vanity station, and put them on, pushing them up his nose.

“It’s too bad you have to wear those specs,” John commented, desperate to make conversation. “They distract from your eyes. Which are really pretty, by the way.”

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. He glared. “Seriously?” He spat.

Something was wrong. “What?” John blinked innocently.

“‘ _I have really pretty eyes_ ’? Next I suppose you’re going to ask me if it hurt when I fell from heaven,” Sherlock said icily.

“What? No, I was just-”

“I don’t know what kind of…game you’re playing, John Watson. If you’re playing a prank on the weird ballet loser, or what, but I don’t appreciate being the butt of your jokes,” Sherlock stated angrily, pushing past John and stomping out through the stage door.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” John said, starting to go after him, but stopping when he saw Sherlock’s pink carnation where he’d dropped on the ground. He picked it up before someone could step on it. Then he looked back at Sherlock’s girlfriends. Irene and Molly looked at him sympathetically.

John sadly trudged over to them, handing the flower to Molly. “Could you…see that he gets it?” said John.

Molly nodded.

John nodded back. Then he said to Irene, “Great show,” before leaving himself. There was a sort of heaviness to his heart, which he couldn't explain.

_I'll make it up to you, Sherlock Holmes. I'll prove myself to you. I'm not a bad guy, honest._

* * *

“Sherlock.” Mycroft was knocking on his bedroom door. “Open the door, brother mine.”

Sherlock threw a pillow at his door. “Go away, _Sigh_ croft.”

Sherlock had been sulking all day about John and last night. He didn’t get why John was teasing him like this. Flirting with the gay kid to make fun of him? But John didn’t seem especially homophobic. Everyone knew his sister was a lesbian. So why was he mocking Sherlock specifically?

“Sherlock, there’s a very handsome young man here to see you. He says he’s your friend.”

John. _Dammit_ . “I don’t _have_ friends who are male,” Sherlock shouted at his pest of a brother. “You know that perfectly well.”

“Sherlock, don’t be tiresome. Come downstairs and greet this boy.”

“No!”

“Then I’m going to let him into your room.”

Sherlock scowled and wished for the trillionth time Mummy believed in locks on bedroom doors. Well, Sherlock wasn’t going to give John Watson the satisfaction of coming downstairs to greet him. He did, however, shove some dirty laundry under his bed and made sure he looked alright before flinging himself back onto his Throne of Sulkery a.k.a. his bed as he heard John’s footsteps outside in the corridor.

The door cautiously opened with a tiny creak. “Sherlock?” came John’s warm tenor.

“What do _you_ want,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillows.

“I came to…apologize? Well, no, not really, because I haven’t done anything wrong,” said John, letting himself in. “But I did come to see if you were alright.”

Sherlock looked up to give John one of his more intimidating glares. “I’m fine. You can go now.”

“Will you come with me?” said John.

“No.”

“Then I can’t go.”

“Why not.”

“Because I came here with a mission,” said John. Why was he so damn chipper anyway? With his warm grin and the little twinkle in his eyes…

“What ‘mission’?” Sherlock inquired.

“It’s a very important mission. We’re talking about the fate of the world here,” said John.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Well, what’s so important?”

“I have to make Sherlock Holmes smile before the end of today,” said John.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. The wattage of John’s smile only increased. _Dammit._

“So get dressed and come out with me,” continued John.

“And suppose I say no,” Sherlock challenged.

John shrugged. “Then suppose I’ll stay here all day staring at you in your jammies.”

Sherlock’s face got hot. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was showered and dressed and walking next to John Watson. “What are we doing?” he grouched.

“Well your brother told me you haven’t eaten today, stuffed up in that room, so we’re going to eat,” said John.

Sherlock’s fist clenched. “That traitor.”

John laughed. “I’m a cruel man, I know.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “And where are we going to eat, exactly?”

“Mycroft said you like Italian, and luckily I know a great place to get pizza.”

“Hmph. How pedestrian,” Sherlock muttered, but if John heard, he didn’t let on. He just put his hands in his pockets and whistled an annoyingly cheerful tune.

After a minute or two, Sherlock couldn’t resist asking: “Isn’t there some _girl_ you’d rather be hanging out with?”

“Oh yeah,” said John.

Sherlock felt his heart sink a little bit. “Who?”

“My nana. I love her a lot. But she died five years ago. So I’m making do with you.” John winked.

Sherlock snorted. “My sincerest condolences about your nana, but am I to understand that I am a substitute for your deceased grandmother?”

“You remind me of her. Curly hair, bony cheeks, acted tough as old boots...but secretly sweet deep down.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched.

"You know, I was wrong about the glasses before," said John, pausing to take a look at him. Sherlock's digestive system squirmed under the scrutiny. "They're really adorable, actually," John continued. "Still...shame to hide those pretty eyes."

Sherlock blushed profusely and turned away, his mouth turning upward of its own accord.

“Did the sun come out, or did you just smile at me?” John asked, grinning.

Sherlock quickly corrected his features into his trademark stony scowl. “I did no such thing. You’re an idiot.”

“Shame,” tutted John. “I could’ve let you go home then. As is, we continue.”

Sherlock was determined not to smile the rest of the day…if it meant spending more time with John.


	4. Boys' Day Out

To John’s dismay, he found his rugby gang hanging out at Angelo’s when he arrived with Sherlock. What if they teased Sherlock? Or spilled the beans about the bet?

“John! Over here, mate!” Lestrade called.

John forced himself to smile. He felt Sherlock poke him in the back. “I can leave if you don’t want to be seen with me,” Sherlock whispered.

“No way,” John answered, and he meant it. Sherlock was…a puzzle. He was sweet, deep down, John could sense it, but hid it with his many firewalls of surliness. John, surprising himself with his own bravery, took Sherlock’s hand. “Come on. Meet my mates. They’re good guys, you’ll like them.”

“I don’t think _they’ll_ like _me_ ,” Sherlock argued.

“Nonsense. I like you. Why wouldn’t they?” said John. He tugged on Sherlock encouragingly, pulling him toward the gang.

“Hey, guys,” said John as he came over with Sherlock. “How’s it going?”

“We’re alright. Hey, Sherlock, right?” said John’s friend Bill Murray (not the actor), reaching out to shake Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock cautiously shook it. “H-hello,” he said.

“Come sit down, you two,” said Paul Dimmock, pulling out a chair. Stamford did the same, and John and Sherlock took a seat.

“Hi, Sherlock. I’m Greg. Try not to forget that name.” Lestrade grinned wolfishly.

“And I’m Mike. We have English together, remember?” said Stamford.

“Sort of. I usually delete English class,” said Sherlock.

The guys laughed appreciatively. Sherlock sat up a little, encouraged by their friendliness. John was glad for it.

“Hey, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “I know we just met an’ all, but you could do me a favor?”

Sherlock blinked. “What’s that?”

“You’re friends with Molly Hooper, right?”

“Yes…”

“Could ya…” Lestrade seemed a little embarrassed. “Could you tell me if she’s single? I have her in my geography class, and I…I was sort of hoping I could ask her to prom.”

“She…yes. She is single,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade smiled. “Would she say yes?”

“I…honestly can’t say. Probably,” Sherlock nodded.

“Well that’s something at least,” said Lestrade, drinking his cola. “Thanks, Sherlock. You’re a good guy.”

“Two large pizzas,” said Angelo, bringing out the rugby boys’ order. “Oh, hey John! Should I bring another one out for you and your date?”

“Date?” said John in surprise.

“John and I are not…”

“Oh. Sorry. Just seemed like you two…never mind. I’ll bring you another pizza.” Angelo scuttled away.

Murray guffawed around a mouthful of pizza, elbowing John. “Pretty _date_ you’ve got there, Johnny boy.”

“Ah, shaddup,” John laughed, unable to keep from blushing.

“Frankly, Sherlock, I think you could do better,” Dimmock added, snickering.

“Hilarious. You’re all comedians,” said John, rolling his eyes. He turned to grin at Sherlock. “Don’t let these idiots embarrass you.”

Sherlock laughed softly, looking at his lap.

“Well look at that. He finally smiled,” said John, triumphant.

“Did not,” grinned Sherlock.

“Did too,” John needled back.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Ugh, for God’s sake, get a room, you two lovebirds!” Stamford teased, making the whole table laugh again.

So the boys chatted and joked and ate pizza. Sherlock, to John’s delight, seemed to actually be enjoying himself. Sherlock and John’s thighs were pushed together the whole time, but hey, John didn’t complain.

Neither did Sherlock.

“Admit it, you had fun,” said John later as he was walking Sherlock home.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. God, he had a lovely smile. “Yes, fine, I concede. You may have won the battle, Watson. But the war is still on.”

“Then you should know I come from a rich military background,” said John. “My dad was in the army. He kept me and my sister in line for all my life.”

“Hmm, perhaps. But I’m a ballet dancer. I know a thing or two about discipline myself,” said Sherlock. “Is your father the reason you’ve never come out?”

John stopped in his tracks, caught offguard. Sherlock immediately panicked. “That was rude, forgive me-”

“No,” said John, taking a deep breath. “No, you’re right. About me.”

Sherlock, thankfully, was patient.

John looked up at a bird sitting in a tree. “I was fourteen when I had my first crush on a boy. His name was James, James Sholto. I met him when I was at a sleepaway camp. He and I kissed…and it felt _right_ , as right as it was with any girl. I never saw him again after that summer. I wasn’t in love or anything. But I’ve always known I like men and women. I’ve never told anyone that, except my sister, Harry. She was brave enough to come out to my parents. Boy, my dad ripped her a new one. Spanked her well and good, locked her in her room for a week. Probably would’ve enrolled her in a Catholic school if he hadn’t thought it would only encourage her. I thought it’d be easier for me, since I could just choose to be with only girls.”

“And if you did…meet someone male…who you liked,” said Sherlock carefuly. “What would you do?”

John smiled up at him. “Well, my dad’s gone – drank himself to death. My mum probably wouldn’t be pleased but she’d get over it eventually. My friends, my _real_ friends, the ones you saw back there, they’d just want to make sure I was happy.”

“But what would _you_ do?” Sherlock persisted.

 _What would I do?_ John realized he needed an answer to that question. Because he found that he was falling hard and fast for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t believe John Watson had chosen to spend the day with _him_ of all people. What was the boy playing at anyway?

Nevertheless, when John invited him to a party at Murray’s that night, Sherlock found himself agreeing to go. After John left his house, it took Sherlock three full minutes to realize what he’d just done. He panicked.

Irene screamed into the phone when Sherlock gave her the news. “Oh my God, Sherlock, that is the _hottest_ party of the year! I’m so excited you get to go with me! And John, of course. I told you he fancied you! I’m coming over right now and we’re doing H.M.W.”

“H.M.W?”

“Hair-makeup-wardrobe!” Irene squealed. “I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, Irene was bursting into his room carrying all her hair supplies, her makeup kit, and a garment bag. “I picked up some trousers that are gonna make your arse look super hot. And check out this little number I picked up,” said Irene, pulling out an aubergine silk button up. “Once Watson gets a look at you in this, the poor lad’s going to have to carry around a bucket to catch all the _drool_ that’ll be pouring out of his mouth.”

“Gross,” said Sherlock, wrinkling his nose. “Well, shall I get dressed?”

“No, not yet!” said Irene. “Makeup first!” She forced Sherlock to put on his contacts and then shoved him into a chair and opened her makeup kit.

“Um, don’t you think John’s going to think me wearing makeup will be _really_ gay?” said Sherlock.

“Oh, re- _lax_ , I’m not going full Kardashian on you. Just place your face in my very capable hands,” lulled Irene. “Have I ever steered you wrong before? Don’t answer that.”

Sherlock, luckily, was used to wearing stage makeup, so he didn’t twitch like most people would. “Ugh, theatre people are such joys to work with,” said Irene. “So patient, so controlled. There we are, darling! Wait till Captain Sexy gets his eye on _you_!”


	5. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening doesn't go as planned...but luckily John is there to dry Sherlock's tears...and more :))))))

The party was in full swing by the time John showed up. Everyone was excited to see him, and he was immediately accosted by his mates.

“Is it true?” said Stamford. “Irene Adler tweeted that you invited Sherlock.”

“Yeah, I did,” said John.

“Oh man, you are gonna win us that spread for sure!” cheered Lestrade.

“Ay, John, isn’t that loverboy over there standing next to Adler?” said Murray.

John looked toward the front door. “Holy…”

Sherlock was fucking _smokin’._

His hair was perfectly tossed, like he’d just been hardcore shagged. His purple shirt was skin tight, the buttons clinging onto their holes for dear life, and his trousers cupped his tight round arse _perfectly_ and…holy fuck, was he wearing _eyeliner_?

“Ho ho.” Lestrade patted John’s chest. “You’re done for, big boy.”

Sherlock caught John’s eye. He smiled shyly.

“Yep. I’m definitely done for,” gulped John, chugging some beer and heading across the room.

But suddenly, a whiz of blonde got in his way. “John! Darling.”

“What do you want, Mary?” John asked.

“I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I heard you were hanging out with that weirdo from the dance team,” said Mary, wrinkling her nose.

“That ‘weirdo’ has a name – it’s Sherlock. And he’s very nice,” John defended.

“You know he’s gay, right? Not that I’m a homophobe or anything. I just wanted to warn you – he might try to kiss you or something.”

“Well, I’d be flattered if he did. He’s effing gorgeous,” John said confidently.

Mary stared at him in disbelief. “Did that rugby ball hit you in the head and give you a concussion or something?”

“Not at all,” said John coolly. “I’m just starting to see things clearly for the first time. See you later, Mary. Oh, and, give my best to David.” John smiled to himself as he walked away.

But to his displeasure, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

“Oh my God, did you see the way he was _staring_ at you?!” Irene squealed as she and Sherlock were getting some punch. “Watson’s got the Hots’ns for you.”

“Shut up, he was probably just gawking because I’m the freak wearing eyeliner,” mumbled Sherlock into his drink.

“Oh please, plenty of people here are wearing eyeliner,” Irene said, rolling her own made up eyes.

“None of the _guys_ are,” Sherlock clarified.

“You look like a smokin’ hot piece of twinky arse, Sherlock Holmes. That boy wants to wear you like a glove,” Irene said with a smirk. Then she lowered her voice. “Ya know. On his _dick_.”

“Are you hammered?” Sherlock asked her seriously.

“Hee-hee! Nope! No drinks for me! Someone’s gotta drive myself home when Watson takes you back to his pad to make _loooooove_.” Irene cackled.

“You are having way too much fun,” Sherlock said. “I need to pee.”

“There’s a bathroom over there, and one upstairs.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock made his way through the dancing people.

“Hey, Sherlock!” called a girl with long dark hair in a friendly, Irish accent.

Sherlock smiled back at her politely. He would have thought she was talking to someone else normally, but how many ‘Sherlocks’ could there be at this party?

“Holmes! My dude!” said another guy, holding out his fist. At first, Sherlock thought he wanted to punch him, but then he realized it was a gesture of camaraderie. “Hello, em…dude.” Sherlock awkwardly shook the boy’s fist. The guy laughed and patted him on the back as he walked away.

What was going on? Why were all these people… _greeting_ him?

Finally Sherlock reached the bathroom, but there was a girl bent over the toilet, heaving. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, turning away.

“Freak?” croaked the girl. It was Sally Donovan. “What are you doing here?”

“I…I don’t know,” admitted Sherlock. Why _was_ he here, anyway?

 _Because you like John_ , said an annoying voice in his head...that Sherlock feared was very much correct.

Sally suddenly doubled over again and retched into the bowl. “Here,” said Sherlock, taking a wad of toilet paper and carefully dabbing her face.

Sally blinked up at him in confusion. “Why are you helping me? You _hate_ me.”

“No. You hate me,” Sherlock corrected quietly.

Sally seemed to soften at this, and said, “What you said about Philip, cheating on me…you were right.”

“Of course I was.”

Sally snorted, then turned green. “Oh no. I’m gonna be sick-”

Sherlock held her thick hair back as she leaned over the toilet again. He rolled a ponytail holder off of his wrist – he carried them around for the girls in ballet for when they forgot theirs – and carefully gathered her dark locks back into a fat tail. “Do you need some water or something?” Sherlock said.

Sally shook her head. “I just wanna be left alone. Please,” she said.

Sherlock nodded and closed the door behind him.

After he finally got done using the other restroom upstairs, he began to wonder: _Where’s John?_ He wandered back downstairs to where the dance floor was hopping with people. Not quite his type of dance.

Suddenly someone grabbed his wrist. “You’re still here?” sneered Mary Morstan. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, freak?”

“I…” Sherlock’s face heated up.

“What do you even think you’re doing here anyway? You think just because John Watson takes you on as a charity case, you’re actually _welcome_ to hang out with us? You’re a loser, Holmes. A real fucking loser. Go back to your stripper pole or whatever it is you do. Oh! Oops.” Mary blatantly spilled her punch on Sherlock’s shirt. She smirked at him.

The music had died. Everyone was staring at them.

Sherlock took a trembling breath. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“What?” Mary scoffed.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, a little louder. “For reminding me exactly why I avoid places like this and people like you.”

“People like me?” Mary snickered. “Look around, _freak_. There’s a hundred of ‘me’ in here, and just one of you. The best thing you can do is crawl back under the rock you came from. You’re a parasite. A _germ_. You’re _nothing_.”

Sherlock could feel his eyes welling up with tears. _Damn, damn! No!_

“Aww,” cooed Mary nastily. “You gonna _cry_?”

“What the hell’s going on here?” rang out a clear male voice. _Oh no, as if this couldn’t get any worse!_ Sherlock thought desperately.

“Sherlock?” A hand touched his shoulder. Sherlock, ashamed, turned to look at John, a tear streaking down his face.

John’s face turned murderous, and his head whipped around to glare at Mary. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!” he spat. “Why do you have to be such an asshole, Mary?!”

Mary was taken aback by John siding with Sherlock. She looked around for allies, but none of their classmates seemed too pleased with her. “What?!” she exclaimed. “You were all thinking it! He doesn’t belong here!”

Sherlock broke away from John and ran out the front door. “Sherlock, wait!” John shouted after him.

Sherlock ignored him and kept running. _I have to get out of here – have to get away-!_ But he tripped over a rock in the driveway and fell, ripping the fabric of his new trousers and scraping his knees. The stinging pain, the humiliation, and the truth behind Mary’s words all combined together forced his sobs from him, and he stayed there on the ground, _crying_. As if he could sink no lower.

“Sherlock,” said a comforting voice. It was John.

“Please just go away,” whispered Sherlock, not wanting anyone, especially John, to see him like this.

“I can’t, this is my fault. I thought you’d have fun. Look, don’t listen to Mary, okay? Everyone _hates_ her. She’s mean and stuck up and self-centered.”

Sherlock sniffled. “Then why’d you date her for so long?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” John ruefully admitted.

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

John actually laughed. “See? There’s the real Sherlock. The one’s who funny and sweet. Everyone in there – everyone in there who _matters_ – knows the real you.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed. “I promised…”

“Promised what?” John’s voice was soft.

Sherlock sobbed a couple more times. “I promised I’d never let them see me cry,” he whispered.

John was silent for a second while Sherlock wept a bit more. Then John said, tenderly, “Come here.” He carefully wrapped his arms around Sherlock – oh. He was _hugging_ him. “This alright?” John murmured.

Sherlock silently nodded. He didn’t normally like being touched – it was okay when Irene or Molly did it – but he liked John holding him. He leaned his head on John’s shoulder and let the tears run their course. “I wanna go home,” he whispered.

“I’ll take you home,” John promised.

“Sherlock!” Irene had appeared. She had violet lipstick marks all over her face and neck. Her own red painted lips were smudged. She had apparently just emerged from her den of iniquity and had heard how Mary had humiliated him. “Oh my God, that _bitch_! I could scratch her eyes out. Are you okay? Do you want me to take you home?”

“I’ll take him home, Irene. You stay here and enjoy the party, if you like,” said John, helping Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock was sure he looked a mess – skinned knees, punch on his shirt, eye makeup running down his face. “Come on, Sherlock,” said John, wrapping an arm around him and taking him to his car.

John drove Sherlock back to his dark house – Mummy, Father, and Myc were out to a dinner party with some friends. They’d only let Sherlock get out of it and go to the party instead because all he did was sulk and make tactless deductions of people when he was forced to come along. “Come on,” said John as they went inside. “Let’s have a look at those knees.”

John reverently patched up his scrapes and cleaned the black smudges from Sherlock’s cheeks. The cool water felt good on Sherlock’s salt-stung face, as good as John’s caring hands did touching him. “There we are, right as rain,” John said, smiling gently.

Sherlock sniffled. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” John said firmly. “If anyone ruined my night, _she_ did. No one talks to my friends that way.”

“I’m your-” _Sniff_. “-friend?”

“Of course,” said John, smiling warmly. “You’re my friend.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back.

John grinned at him. “And I didn’t think it was possible for the sun to shine at night.”

Sherlock giggled.

“Whoo, I better get my shades, it’s gettin’ bright in here!”

Sherlock was laughing too hard to care that a blush was spreading across his cheeks. “Do you want to stay?” he asked before he knew the words were coming out of his mouth.

John’s eyes widened in surprise.

Sherlock immediately began stammering. “N-not like that, not as a gay thing, I swear, I just meant…” Sherlock trailed off, embarrassed. He didn’t know what he meant.

“Well…” Was it Sherlock’s imagination, or was John turning red too? “I did have a few at the party. Probably not safe for me to drive.”

“Safety is always wise,” Sherlock said, not pointing out that John had driven him home with no problems.

“So I guess I better stay then,” John said.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They were staring at each other. Their faces were very close.

“If…” John cleared his throat and leaned back, to Sherlock’s disappointment. “If that’s alright with your folks.”

“They won’t care,” Sherlock said.

“Okay. Right then. Good.” John smiled.

John went off to text his mom that he was staying at a friend’s house while Sherlock removed his contacts and put on clean pajamas. He looked at his purple shirt in dismay, hoping the punch didn’t stain. Then he slid into bed.

There was a tentative knock on the door, and John poked his head in. “Um…where am I sleeping?”

“Umm…there’s a guest room down the hall,” said Sherlock.

“Oh. Right. Thank you.” John began to back out of his room again.

“Or you could sleep in here!” Sherlock blurted.

John looked at him in surprise.

“Not as a gay thing!” Sherlock quickly declared again.

“No, no, I know that,” said John. “Umm. Yeah. Why dirty up the sheets in the guest room? This bed looks big enough for two.”

“Umm…here.” Sherlock scooted over, making sure John had enough pillow space.

John toed off his shoes and socks. He seemed to hesitate, then he peeled his jumper off over his head, leaving him in his white undershirt.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

Then John, _nervously_ , it seemed, unzipped his jeans and let them fall to the floor around his ankles, leaving him in his light blue boxers. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t bring pajamas with me, and I’m pretty sure none of yours would fit.”

“It’s fine.” Oh God, Sherlock hoped that didn’t come out as squeaky as it sounded.

John slid into bed beside him. He was lying on his back, his head turned to face him. “Well…goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said softly, lying on his side, facing him.

They looked at each other a bit longer, then closed their eyes and fell asleep.


	6. #SherlocksInLove

The next morning, as John was just beginning to wake up, he was aware that he felt very warm and comfortable. There was something slightly tickling his nose.

As he became more aware, he realized he had his arms wrapped securely around someone, someone who used very appealing conditioner. John’s eyes slowly opened.

He was snuggling with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s head was resting on his chest, his arm draped over John’s waist, with John’s arms around his shoulders, their legs tangled up together. John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but he seemed very content, sound asleep in John’s arms. John couldn’t help but smile.

“He’s always been a heavy sleeper.”

Startled, John looked up. Sherlock’s brother was standing by the bed, arms crossed, glaring at him.

“Oh, umm, hey Mycroft – Sherlock, wake up,” John whispered urgently, gently nudging the boy wrapped around him.

“Mmmm…five more minutes,” Sherlock grumbled drowsily, burying his face in John’s chest – practically _nuzzling_ him – oh boy-

“Sherlock, it’s Mycroft!” John hissed.

“Piss off, Myc,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock!” Finally John managed to rouse him. Sherlock blinked sleepily several times, then realized he was entwined with John and scrambled to put as much space between their bodies as possible, edging to the other side of the bed.

“Well, my little brother has joined the land of the living at last,” said Mycroft loftily.

Sherlock put on his glasses to glare up at him. “What do _you_ want?” he grouched.

“Mummy sent me up to tell you that breakfast is ready, and that your ‘gentleman friend’ is welcome to stay.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. That would be nice. If Sherlock wants me to stay, that is,” said John.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. “You can stay if you want,” he mumbled to his knees, which he had pulled up to his chest.

Mycroft sighed. “Dammit, little brother, I had better not have to endure overhearing Mummy giving you ‘the talk’ again-”

“Nothing _happened_ , Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed, two bright spots of red appearing on his cheekbones.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t make us wait for you.” He gave John the Evil Eye. “I’ll be watching you, Mr. Watson.”

“Yes sir,” John mumbled as Myc exited. Then, once he heard the man’s footsteps disappearing down the stairs, John grinned at Sherlock. “Is he really going to be ‘watching’ me? Man, he takes the title ‘Big Brother’ a little too seriously, eh?” John laughed.

Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him. “I-I didn’t mean to – it was an accident, I must’ve done it in my sleep-”

“Hey, it takes two to tango,” John pointed out. “I wasn’t exactly trying to get away. Hell, I think that was the best night of sleep I’ve had in awhile.”

Sherlock blushed, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. “Really?”

“Oh yes. You don’t look it, but you’re very comfy.” John smiled.

Sherlock turned even pinker – God, he was adorable. “You too,” he muttered, and John caught a glimpse of a shy smile.

John couldn't help but think that he'd like to wake up like this every morning. With Sherlock's lovely slender body clinging to his like ivy, getting to see his adorably messy curls and his gorgeous sleepy eyes.

John’s stomach gurgled, interrupting his pleasant thoughts. “Mm. Your mum’s cooking sounds real good right about now.”

“She goes all out on Sunday mornings,” said Sherlock as they climbed out the bed, pulling the covers neat again. “Especially for guests.”

“Sounds great,” said John, feeling ravenous.

“Umm…I’ll clarify that you’re not my…‘gentleman friend’,” Sherlock said bashfully.

“Well I am your friend,” said John, grinning wryly. “And I am most definitely a gentleman.”

“But they think you’re my…um.”

“Yeah. I know what they think.” John smiled at him in what he hoped was an enigmatic manner, then pulled on his jeans and walked out into the hallway to use Sherlock’s bathroom.

* * *

John must be magic, Sherlock thought. His mummy fell absolutely in love with John immediately, and Father was very impressed with him as well. Even Mycroft’s glare managed to soften from **KILL** to merely **STUN**.

After breakfast, John left to go back to his own house to shower and change for rugby practice. Mummy went on and on about him after he was gone. “He’s the most well-mannered young man I’ve ever met – apart from my own boys, of course – and so _handsome_. Oh, Sherlock darling, I’m so thrilled for you.”

“Mummy, he’s not my boyfriend,” Sherlock kept trying to tell her.

“Oh, dear, yes he is. Maybe he hasn’t said it to you yet, but that boy absolutely _adores_ you. We should invite him over for supper next week. What does John like, darling? I’ll make anything he wants.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured, staring at his lap. “I’ll have to ask him.”

His mummy patted him on the cheek, coaxing his face up. “Don’t mumble, dear.” She kissed his curly head and went along puttering about the house, humming to herself the rest of the day.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day thinking of John. His golden hair all mussed from sleeping – in _Sherlock’s bed_ – his muscles rippling under his tee shirt – while _in_ _Sherlock’s bed_ – the shade of dark blue his eyes were after he’d just woken up – waking up in **_Sherlock’s bed_**.

Sherlock sighed dreamily and hugged his pillow. He was in love. He was in love, he was in love, he was in love.

That night, Sherlock dreamed about John too.

On Monday morning, Sherlock actually felt excited about getting ready for school. He was going to see John, of course! He had to look good. He carefully picked out a midnight blue shirt that Irene said offset his eyes, and dark blue skinny jeans – the same blue as John’s eyes. He considered putting in his contacts and applying eyeliner again, but decided against it, feeling that it’d be too much for the daytime. Besides, John thought his glasses were adorable - he'd said so. Sherlock put them on proudly and headed for school.

He was on such a John high, he’d forgotten all about the disastrous events of Saturday night – until he walked into school.

“Ay, Sherlock! Congrats, mate!” called a guy Sherlock didn’t even know as he walked in the door.

“You’ve totally got my vote,” said a girl from his health class, squeezing his arm.

“Sherlock, the French club is behind you. _Votez pour Sherlock!_ ”

“Alright, bottom feeders, make way, best friends of _royalty_ coming through!” Irene declared, pushing her way through the crowd flocking Sherlock, Molly following closely behind her. Once she reached him she squealed and hugged the breath out of him. “You’re a prince, Sherlock baby!”

“I’m a what?” said Sherlock, entirely in the dark.

“Don’t you check Twitter anymore?” Molly said. “After the party on Saturday – I’m _so_ sorry, by the way – the hashtag _#sherlockforpromking_ started trending in our class.”

“Along with _#maryisanasshole_ , _#teamsherlock_ , even _#teamjohnlock_.” Irene grinned. “I may have coined that one myself.”

“What’s ‘Johnlock’?” Sherlock feared to ask. He doubted Irene was referring to the philosopher.

“John + Sherlock. It’s your power couple name. Like Brangelina,” Molly explained.

“What’s a Brangelina?” Sherlock said.

“Needless to say, you’re popular now, Sherlock! You’re in the running for prom court!” Irene showed Sherlock to a poster hanging on the wall, declaring “# **SHERLOCKFORPROMKING** ” with a _very_ exaggerated cartoon of himself dressed as a superhero, with bulging muscles and a flowing cape. There was a blonde rugby player in the distant background ogling his depiction with hearts for eyes that Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion was supposed to be John.

“Oh yeah. The Art Club is behind you too,” said Molly.

Sherlock squinted. In the bottom right hand corner, there was a tiny artist's tag: _SD_.

Sherlock looked around. Across the hall, the dancer spotted Sally Donovan leaning against the lockers, looking back at him. She held up her arm, showing him the ponytail holder he'd given her at the party. She was wearing it on her wrist like a bracelet. She offered him a tiny, apologetic smile.

Sherlock nodded slightly, then turned back to his friends. “But who the hell would nominate me?” he said, mystified.

“Me,” said a female, Irish voice. It was the girl from the party who’d waved to Sherlock. “I’m Janine Hawkins,” she said.

“You’re on the cheerleading squad, aren’t you? Aren’t you one of Mary’s best friends?” Sherlock asked.

Janine snorted. “Hardly. You have no idea how many people hate her guts. We’ve all been too afraid to say anything though. But you and John opened the floodgates at the party.” Janine proudly held up a button claiming _#maryisanasshole_. “No one in their right mind would vote for her now. She was booed off the field at cheerleading practice yesterday by both us and the rugby team. Guess who’s head cheerleader now?” Janine grinned, executing a high kick proudly. “You’re the masthead for a revolution, Sherlock Holmes. You’re Moses leading the Jews out of Egypt. The old queen is dead – long live the king. See you on Prom Night!” Janine winked and did a cartwheel down the corridor.

Irene punched Sherlock’s arm. “I was trying to tell you in advance! That’s why you should answer your phone! I texted you all day yesterday – what happened after you left the party?”

“I…spent the night with John,” Sherlock mumbled, blushing with pleasure.

Irene screamed so loud, the entire hallway turned to look at them questioningly. Irene, not caring at all, whipped out her phone and began typing frantically. “Oh my God, tweeting that right now! Hashtag team Johnlock!”

“You are not tweeting anything!” Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing the hand her phone was in. “It wasn’t _like that_. He just spent the night at my house, that’s it!”

“On your couch?” Molly said.

“Well, no,” admitted Sherlock, flustered. “He…he slept in my bed with me.”

Irene and Molly screamed together. “Guys, people are staring!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Oh, people were already staring – you’re a celebrity, darling, better get used to it,” Irene said. “So…really? No action at all?”

“We…I believe the term is ‘cuddling’.”

“Awww,” sighed Molly and Irene simultaneously.

“But it wasn’t like…he doesn’t like me like that, alright? We’re just friends, _that’s all_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock, are you sure?” Molly said. “Because it really sounds like John is in love with you.”

“He wants to bend you over the _barre_ and make you beg for mercy twice,” grinned Irene wickedly. “He wants to get on his knees and worship at your temple. He wants to score a goal in _your_ net. He wants to have your _babies_ -”

“Irene, enough. You’ve already made me read your Drarry fan fictions, I really don’t need to hear the ones you’re writing about _me_.”

“We should go to the game today!” said Molly. “John would love it if you came to see him play. He did ask you, you know.”

“Yes! It would be great for publicity! It’s a public outing! Hashtag team Johnlock!” Irene declared, pumping her fist.

“You know hashtags don’t work in verbal conversations, right, Irene?” said Sherlock.

“Oh come on, Mister Grumpy Pants – which by the way, look perfect on your arse, nicely done – you mean you _don’t_ wanna see a hot, sweaty John Watson running around in rugby shorts?” Irene raised her eyebrow knowingly.

Sherlock sighed. She’d won.


	7. Player

Sherlock found the game of rugby…fascinating.

The physics of it, of course. The trajectory, angles, momentum…oh, who was he kidding? He was staring at John Watson’s arse the entire time.

Irene elbowed him. “His eyes are up there, Thirsty McHorndog,” she murmured.

Sherlock’s cheeks burned. “Shut up, I’m studying…muscle tension.”

“Uh huh. Sure you are.” Irene leaned back in her seat, snickering.

“Besides, who are you to talk? You’ve been ogling the cheerleaders this whole time.”

Irene sighed wistfully as Janine Hawkins bent over to pick up a fallen pom-pom. “I may be love’s bitch. But at least I have balls enough to admit it.”

“Why don’t you stop quoting _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_ and just ask her out?” Sherlock suggested.

“She’s super hot. But not my type.”

“She told you she was straight, didn’t she?”

Irene sighed in disgust. “What the hell is so great about penis anyway?” she exclaimed, drawing some odd looks from the spectators around them, but she didn’t notice, or care.

Sherlock looked sadly at his lap. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a sad gay virgin.”

“Don’t despair, my love,” said Irene, patting his shoulder like a caring mother. “I have a feeling that’s about to change very soon.”

“And why is that?”

“Because John stares at nothing but you during every timeout.”

Sherlock looked up in surprise. He cast his gaze across the field.

Sure enough, the rugby captain was indeed staring at him.

Sherlock gazed back, wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights.

Very deliberately, with breaking his gaze, John slowly opened a bottle of water and brought it to his lips. The cool liquid poured from the neck and into his lips. John drank and drank like a man who’d been stranded in the desert for a hundred days – all while staring at Sherlock.

The sight was filthy in its own sense. It was gorgeous. Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Oh look. Lestrade is finally making his move on Molly.”

Molly was indeed draped over the railing of the bleachers, blushing hard as Lestrade grinned up at her charmingly from the sidelines. If Sherlock had bothered to look, he would have deduced the rugby player’s nervousness from the way he rubbed his neck or had his hand in his pocket or the way his eyes kept darting about.

But Sherlock just couldn’t look away from John.

John wasn’t looking away either.

They were both taken by surprise by the ref’s whistle, signaling time in. John set down his empty water bottle, winked at Sherlock knowingly, and ran off, his shorts showcasing his gluteal muscles once again. Sherlock thought he was melting.

Molly ran over to them and flung herself down. “Guess what? _Gregory Lestrade_ just asked me to the dance! I didn’t even know he noticed me! He’s so handsome, and sweet, and funny. I’ve never talked to him in my life. Then today he just came over to me and asked me to prom! This is just like a fairytale.” Molly sighed dreamily.

“Great,” grumbled Irene. “You’re going with Lestrade, Sherlock’s going with Watson, and I can bring my blow up doll.”

Sherlock blinked, shaken from his reverie. “I’m not going with John,” he said, slightly surprised.

“What? You mean, he hasn’t asked you?” Irene said incredulously.

Sherlock blushed, shaking his head no.

“What the hell?! As soon as this thing’s over, I’m going to go over there and knock some sense into him. What’s he waiting on? The whole school is rooting for you two! Not to mention that you’re both here salivating over each other, practically mutual masturba-”

“ _Irene!_ ” exclaimed Sherlock and Molly at the same time, both looking affronted.

Irene snorted. “As if I haven’t said anything no one was already thinking.”

The game went on. John was spectacular, Sherlock observed. He knew next to nothing about the rugby, but it was obvious that John was making all the plays.

Irene nudged him. “He's showing off for you.”

Sherlock watched as John earned another try for their side. The rugby player’s eyes immediately darted to him. To make sure Sherlock was watching, the dancer realized. He blushed at the idea. John smiled brightly at him.

Their team won, and everybody was ecstatic. Sherlock found himself carried away by the spirit and got up to applaud with the rest of the cheering crowd.

Irene prodded him. “What?” said Sherlock.

“Go over there and see John!” she urged. “Give him a victory snog! Or a lap dance. I don't know.”

“ _Irene!_ ” Sherlock blushed profusely.

“Don't argue with me, just go!”

Sherlock grinned, nervous, but excited. He was really going to do it. He was going to kiss John!

Sherlock turned and clambered down the bleachers.

But before he could cross the field to the team’s fieldhouse, someone called his name. A handsome blonde boy who was very much not John.

“Hi,” said the boy with a friendly smile, approaching him. “I'm Victor.”

* * *

In the locker room, the team was raucously celebrating their victory. “We won the game! It's the championships for us!” declared Dimmock.

“And we're getting the leading spread in the school yearbook!” Lestrade added. Then he muttered under his breath, “and I’m goin’ to prom with Molly Hooper.”

“And it's all thanks to our ace team captain!” Murray exclaimed. “Three cheers for John Watson!”

“ _Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!_ ”

John smiled graciously at their accolades. “I can't take all the credit. You're the best team a bloke could hope for. You've really made my last year amazing. Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me...” His grin turned wolfish. “I'm about to go ask the prettiest little ballerino in the whole world to be my prom date.”

The team began to wolf whistle and playfully catcall. Suddenly-

“John!” exclaimed Stamford, looking out the window. “Trouble. _Big_ trouble.”

“What’s up?” said John, coming to his side.

“Sherlock's talking to Victor.”

A cold hand gripped John’s heart at the sight of the two boys conversing out the window. _Oh no._ John bolted for the door.

But it was too late. John ran up to them just in time to hear Victor say, “You might as well go to prom with me, Sherlock. John's not as nice a guy as he seems.”

“Sherlock!” John gasped for breath.

Sherlock turned to look at him, question marks swimming in his eyes. “John?” he said softly.

“Don't listen to him,” panted John. “He's lying.”

“Okay, John, enough. Seriously,” said Victor sharply. “This is just cruel now. Sherlock, I really didn't want to have to tell you this...but John made a bet with me to get you elected as prom royalty. Since you were...unpopular. He thought flirting with you and getting you to like him would help his chances of winning. Which _I_ think is just sick, by the way,” Victor added haughtily.

Sherlock was very silent and very still for a second. Then he slowly turned around again to face John. His eyes were wet with angry tears. “Is this true?” he whispered. “Was I a bet? Was I a bet, was I a _fucking bet?!_ ” he shouted.

They had attracted an audience. People were standing around, watching in silence.

John swallowed. “...okay, that's _technically_ true-”

Sherlock looked utterly crushed.

“-but Sherlock, I swear, everything I said, everything we did, everything you felt for me, it was _real_ ,” John scrambled to say. “I like you, I _really_ like you. Sherlock, I'm begging you, don't be angry with me-” He reached out to take Sherlock's hand-

Sherlock jerked away from him. He froze John with a subzero glare. “Stay _away_ from me,” he hissed. Then he turned and ran away.

John was paralyzed.

“Sherlock!” Irene and Molly called after their friend, but Sherlock just kept running. Irene whipped her head around so fast at John, the rugby player would have thought she'd contracted whiplash. “You fucking _maggot_!” she screeched at him. “How could you do that to him?! You are the worst - the most - _despicable_ \- _loathsome_ -” Irene was too furious to speak.

“Irene, let me,” said Molly quietly, touching her friend's shoulder. Irene stewed in her own ire as she stared daggers at John.

Molly took a deep breath, calmly walked up to John...

...and struck him across the face.

Everyone gasped.

“You and Mary Morstan deserve each other,” Molly stated. “You're both massive assholes.”

She turned and marched away after Sherlock, dragging Irene with her. The crowd started murmuring - and probably tweeting.

John glared at Victor. “This is all your fault.”

“No, John,” said Victor, oozing self-righteousness. “No one made you take that bet. You did this to yourself. And to him.”

Victor turned and walked away. The rest of the crowd was disappearing too, whispering scandalously, some casting John scathing looks. John was left alone.

Well, almost alone.

Mary sidled up to him and slid her arm into his. “Don't worry, darling. They'll forget all about you and that little nobody by prom time. Then we can make things right again.” Mary patted his hand. “Pick me up at eight. Don't be late.” With a kiss on his cheek, Mary walked away too.

Abandoned in the middle of the field, as the sun was setting, John buried his face in his hands. “What have I _done_?” he said.


	8. Prom Preparations

Mummy tsked as she felt Sherlock’s forehead. “How horrid, my little prince getting sick. Probably contracted some nasty germ from that filthy school. Well, you're staying home today, young man.” Mummy kissed the top of Sherlock's head. “I'll bring you some nice cool ginger ale.”

Sherlock sighed once she'd gone. He looked out his window miserably.

“You're not sick.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get out, _Pie_ croft,” he grumbled.

Myc was standing in the doorway of his room, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. “It isn't like you to feign illness, little brother.”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. “It's been stressful these past few days, with final exams approaching. I've been working hard. I wanted a day off.”

“I see. So this has nothing to do with a certain rugby player and a bet he might have made?”

Sherlock’s brow furled. “How did you-"

Mycroft held up his phone, open to his Twitter app.

Sherlock scowled and flopped back onto his pillows. “What the hell are you doing on Twitter,” he grumbled.

“I had to keep tabs on my little brother somehow.”

“ _Why?_ ” groaned Sherlock.

“Because I worry about you,” said Myc, softening his voice just a little. “Constantly.”

Sherlock glared at the ceiling. “I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone.”

Myc kept standing there.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock added begrudgingly.

Finally Mycroft sighed and walked away.

Sherlock's eyes threatened to well up as he thought of John again. John, who'd clapped for him at his dance show and taken him out for pizza with his friends like he was one of them and stood up for him at the party and taken care of him and slept next to him and _held_ him-

 _It was all a lie_ , Sherlock reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut, refusing to cry. He wasn't going to shed one tear for John Watson.

Sherlock stayed in bed all day, thinking of everything under the sun that _wasn't_ John. Around four o’clock, the doorbell rang.

It rang again.

Again.

Everyone else must be out. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of bed. He stomped downstairs and looked through the peephole.

 _Victor? What does he want?_ wondered Sherlock, opening the door.

Victor looked at him nervously. “Hi, Sherlock.”

“Hi,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Are you okay? You weren't at school today.”

Sherlock stared at him dubiously. “I'm sick,” he declared.

“Umm...right. Okay. Listen.” Victor cleared his throat. “I came to ask you something."

Sherlock waited. Victor shuffled nervously.

" _Yes_?" said Sherlock impatiently.

"I wanted to ask if you'd go to prom with me," Victor said quickly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You really think I'd go to prom with you? You and..." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the name. "You and Watson made a fool out of me."

"I know. What we did was wrong, and I'm really, really sorry," said Victor, and Sherlock, surprised, could tell he was being sincere. "We took it too far. I never intended for you to get hurt. The truth is..." Victor took a deep breath. "I actually think you're really cute. And I wanted a reason to talk to you. But obviously I went about it all the wrong way. I did a bad thing, and I tried to undo it at the game. I just thought you deserved to know the truth."

"Well..." Sherlock played with the rope of his dressing gown. "Thank you. For that at least."

"And I'd really like to make it up to you," Victor continued. "So I thought we could go to the dance together. We could have fun. Besides, you're still on the ballot. You're really likely to win, to be honest. It'd be a shame if you won and weren't there to claim your throne."

Sherlock crossed his arms, almost hugging himself. "I don't know."

"I don't expect anything," said Victor quickly. "We can just go as friends, if you want. You don't even have to dance with me. Or talk to me. I just want you to be able to have fun. After all...prom only happens once in a lifetime. You might regret it if you don't go."

Sherlock bit his lip, thinking. _But what if he's there?_ he worried.

As he could read Sherlock's mind, Victor added: "And if Watson sees you having fun without him after he hurt you, it'll be really delicious revenge." Victor smirked.

Sherlock didn't really want to get revenge on John. Then again...John had really humiliated him...

Sherlock looked Victor in the eye. "Okay. But I do not like you. And you have to give my friend Irene Adler a ride there too. Do you understand?"

Victor nodded. "Understood." He smiled timidly. "Pick you up at eight?"

Sherlock nodded. "At eight...thanks." He shut the door.

* * *

_Last night..._

John drummed his fingers nervously against his desk as he waited with bated breath for someone to pick up on the other end.

Finally, someone answered. "Hello?"

It was Mycroft. Not good. Still, John was hopeful - maybe Sherlock hadn't told him anything. "Hi, it's John Watson. Can I talk to Sherlock?" he asked pleasantly, as if nothing was wrong.

"No," said Mycroft flatly. He knew. "Do not call this number again. And stay away from my brother." He hung up on him with a loud clunk.

John swallowed hard. He didn't have Sherlock's cell number, but he doubted that would've worked any better.

He wanted so badly to make up for what he'd done. He hated to see Sherlock that sad...especially because of him. _How could I have hurt him like that?_ John scolded himself furiously. _Molly was right, I'm such an asshole - Molly! That's it!_

At school the next day, during his off period, John went down to the theatre department. He nervously knocked on the office door.

The door opened and Molly stuck her head out. Her expression turned into a stony glare Sherlock would have commended. "Oh. It's you."

"Molly, you have no reason to want to help me," said John. "But I really like Sherlock. I... _like him, like him_. And I feel terrible about what I did. I don't care if he never speaks to me again, because I don't deserve it. But you care about Sherlock, you're his best friend. Will you help me make it up to him?"

Molly stared at him for a second, then sighed. "What do you want," she said flatly.

"You take pictures of all the plays and dance shows and things, right?"

"Yes."

John licked his lips. "Can I look through them?"

* * *

Sherlock finished tying his bowtie. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a black tuxedo, with a lavender shirt, and a white bowtie and cummerbund. The Holmes family tailor had done a very nice job on such short notice.

It was the big night. Sherlock was very nervous. He'd "recovered" from his illness two days ago and gone back to school. He'd received sympathetic looks and pats on the back. Everyone was very nice to him, and he was grateful for it, even if he suspected they were just pitying him. But he still felt humiliated about the whole thing. Luckily he'd managed to avoid John.

He heard the doorbell ring downstairs. He smoothed down his lapel one more time. He stared at his reflection.

"Into battle," he murmured.

Then he took a deep breath, and went downstairs.

Mummy took pictures as he descended. "Ohhh, my handsome little darling! You look absolutely splendid! Come over in front of the fireplace, let me get a picture of you and..." Mummy looked at Victor questioningly. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't catch your name."

"Victor Trevor, ma'am." Victor smiled nicely at her.

"Victor, let me get a picture of you and Victor together," said Mummy, posing them together. "Oh, you two are so dashing in your suits," she cooed, capturing them over and over.

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes." Victor took Sherlock's hand and slid a corsage onto his wrist - a green carnation. It matched the one pinned on his lapel.

Sherlock studied it curiously. "Why green?" he asked.

"It's Victorian," said Victor. "Guys like us used to wear them to...advertise." Victor winked. "Cute, huh?"

"Victorian. And your name is Victor. Charming," said Sherlock wryly. Mummy took more pictures.

"We had better go, we still have to pick up Irene," said Victor. "Goodnight, Mrs. Holmes. I'll have him back home before one o'clock."

"You boys have fun. Oh, Sherlock!" Mummy pulled Sherlock toward her and whispered, "What happened to John?" she asked.

Sherlock swallowed. "I don't want to go with John," he answered honestly. "And besides, he's going with someone else."

* * *

"Are you ready, Mr. Watson?"

"Ready...Ms. Watson," said John, grinning as he took his sister's arm. "You excited about going back to your old stomping grounds?" he asked as they headed for the door.

"I doubt anyone even remembers me!" laughed Harry. "You better hook me up tonight, baby brother."

"Don't worry," said John, smiling. "I have the perfect girl in mind."

"Well, then...we're off!"

* * *

Mary tapped her high-heeled foot impatiently. She cast another look at the clock. It was 8:20.

She fumed as she realized she had been stood up.


	9. Picture Perfect

Sherlock, Victor, and Irene, dressed in a jaw-dropping, slinky, dark red gown slit up her thigh, arrived to the dance to find it in full swing. Irene grinned predatorily. "Let's tear a hole through this shindig, boys."

"Guys!" Molly rushed over to them, wearing a cute little yellow dress, holding hands with Greg. She eagerly hugged her friends. "Holy  _shit_ , Irene, you look stunning! And Sherlock, you're so cute!"

Sherlock pouted. "Cute wasn't exactly what I was going for."

The others laughed. Suddenly, Molly gasped as a new track began to play. "Oh, I love this song! Come on, Greg!" Molly tugged him out onto the dance floor.

"Hey, wait for me!" Irene exclaimed, running after them.

Victor looked at Sherlock apprehensively. "Do you...wanna dance?" he asked.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to answer that. Then, something caught his eye across the room.

John.

He looked gorgeous as always, especially in his tuxedo - a bit like James Bond, truth be told. There was a blonde girl in a green dress on his arm who wasn't Mary. His sister Harriet, Sherlock realized.

John was staring at him.

Sherlock corrected his features, tore his gaze away, took Victor's arm, and said defiantly, "Why not?" Together, they ventured out onto the dance floor.

* * *

_Trevor? Why's he here with Trevor?_ John thought desperately as Sherlock and Victor walked to the dance floor arm in arm.

Harry nudged him, shaking him from his reverie. "So? Which one of these gorgeous gals is mine for the taking?"

"Oh!" John pointed to the tall, slender seductress draped in red. "There's your girl right there. Her name's Irene."

Harry's eyes fell upon Irene and her jaw dropped. "Johnny, you shouldn't have!" she gasped.

"Go get her, tiger," laughed John, clapping Harry on the back as she made her way across the room. Then he looked over at Sherlock once again.

He was dancing in Victor's arms.

John's heart hurt at the sight. He tore his eyes away and made his way to the punch bowl.

* * *

Irene was grinding on the dance floor by herself when suddenly, her hands were grabbed by someone else - a cute blonde girl with a naughty sparkle in her demin colored eyes - as she was pulled in to dance.

"Hey, how ya doin?" said Little Blonde. "I'm Harriet Watson. I'm homeschooled."

Irene slowly smirked. "I'm Irene Adler. I'm single."

* * *

"Attention, everyone. Attention?"

Principal Doyle was standing on the stage at the microphone, holding an index card. "It's time to announce the winners of the election for prom royalty."

Victor squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "Good luck, honey. Not that you need it. You're a shoo-in."

"Oh, I-I don't know-"

"The winner of our first spot, earning the most votes in the whole school is...Sherlock Holmes," announced Principal Doyle.

The whole room exploded into applause. Irene and Molly screeched, hugging their friend tightly. Even Lestrade shook his hand with a hearty, "well done, mate."

Sherlock blushed as he made his way to the stage, where his dance instructor, Mr. Wilde, placed a plastic crown on his head. "Good for you, Sherlock!" he whispered.

"And coming in second place - it was a very close call...Victor Trevor!" Principal Doyle declared.

Victor gladly joined Sherlock on stage to accept his crown. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Isn't this fabulous?" he squealed.

Sherlock was distracted, staring into the crowd...looking for John. He couldn't see him.

 _Why should I care?_ thought Sherlock.  _He's a spineless, reprehensible...completely wonderful man._

The music started up again, and Victor and Sherlock went back onto the floor to slow dance for their coronation. Gradually, people began to join them. Sherlock tried to act like he was happy, but he wasn't. Sherlock didn't care about winning, and while Victor had been very nice to him...he just wasn't John.

Finally Victor sighed. "Okay. I can't do this."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

Victor pulled out his mobile. "There's something you need to see."

Sherlock waited patiently as Victor pulled up a file. "The bet...was to get you elected as Prom King. If John won, I said I would replace the cheerleaders' front page spread with a picture of the rugby team. Last night, John emailed me. He asked me to change the terms of our bet. He said he said he wanted me to use _this_ picture for the spread instead."

Sherlock looked at the screen...and quietly gasped, his eyes going wide. "Oh..."

He could recognize Molly's work anywhere. It was a stunning picture from the dance show, of himself on the dark stage. Molly had caught him mid- _grand jete_ , and even Sherlock had to admit that he looked rather beautiful, graceful like a swan. He was shimmering in the soft pink spotlight. His body almost filled up the entire frame. "Oh my goodness..." Sherlock said softly.

"He made one tiny edit," said Victor, taking the phone back and zooming in on the bottom right hand corner.There, in small Corsiva type, it said:

_I'm sorry. -JHW_

"He gave up the front page...for  _me_?" Sherlock squeaked.

"Yep," Victor replied. "I figure he must really love you."

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was trembling. "What should I do?" he asked.

Victor grinned. "Honey, if I were you, I'd go after him and profess my undying love for him. And I'd hurry, because I just saw him walk out the front door a minute ago."

Sherlock looked at Victor. "Thank you," he said. He broke into a little smile. "Thank you!" He turned and ran after John.

Victor smiled wistfully after Sherlock's retreating back. "Don't mention it," he whispered.

* * *

John stepped out into the quiet. The milky twilight was suspended above him, and the full moon was clear and bright. It reminded him of Sherlock's shy, delicate beauty. He sighed and walked down the steps and began cutting through the grass to his car, awaiting him in the parking lot.

Suddenly, his attention was drawn by the sound of rustling chiffon as a slightly disheveled Mary came barreling toward him out of the darkness. She grabbed his hand. "I forgive you," she declared. She began tugging him back toward the school. "Now let's go in and-"

"When are you gonna get it?!" exclaimed John, twisting out of her grasp. " _I don't want you._ You're a terrible person! It's over, Mary!"

Mary seethed at him. "Why?! Because of that little dance freak?"

John threw his arms open in frustration. "Yes, okay?! I am madly in love with Sherlock Holmes! He's gorgeous and clever and funny and the sweetest person I've ever met, and I love him!"

Mary harrumphed, enraged. "Fine. I don't need a pathetic loser like you anyway! Enjoy mediocrity, John Watson." Then she glared at something over John's shoulder. "I hope you freaks are very happy together!" She gathered her frivolous skirts and stomped back the way she came.

John turned around.

Sherlock was standing across the lawn, staring at him. His eyes were big and bright.

"Oh my God," gasped John. "Sherlock, you weren't supposed to hear that, I'm so sorry, I'll leave you alone, I promise-"

But John was cut off as Sherlock tackled him to the ground, his long limber legs straddling his waist. Before John even had time to process what had happened, Sherlock was pressing his lips up against his enthusiastically.

John was taken quite by surprise at the soft attack, but nonetheless pleased. Sherlock kissed him over and over, nothing long or deep, but sweet and full of energy. "Sherlock," John gasped when Sherlock finally pulled away.

Sherlock smiled down at him. "You're an idiot," he said.

John smiled too. He cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Yeah," he murmured. "But I'm your idiot."

Then, slowly and deeply, he kissed those delicious, beautiful, plump lips the way they deserved to be kissed.

Molly, Lestrade, Irene, Harry, Stamford, and Victor had all come out as the couple lay kissing in the grass, totally oblivious to the world around them. They grinned simultaneously when they spotted John and Sherlock and began clapping them on. The two looked up in surprise, both turning red.

"Oh please," guffawed Lestrade. "Don't let us stop you."

Molly squealed. "Good for you, Sherlock! John...hurt him, and we will hunt you down."

"That goes double for me," Irene added, lifting an eyebrow threateningly.

John laughed. "No chance there, ladies. I plan to make Sherlock the happiest man in the world. Well, second happiest, after me." He smiled adoringly at Sherlock, who blushed hard. "Well, what do you say? Will you be my boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock smirked. "What do you think?" He kissed John again as an answer.

Harry wolf-whistled. "This is a sexy one, Johnny boy. Congratulations."

"Yeah, congrats, John!" cheered Mike.

Victor sniffed, wiping his eyes. Irene looked at him curiously. "Are you crying?"

"Sorry," sniffled Victor happily. "I just love a happy ending."

Sherlock (to John's reluctance) climbed off of him, then helped him to his feet. "Come on. It's prom night and I expect to dance with my  _boyfriend_ ," he declared, beaming.

John kissed him. "Anytime you want, love. I'm all yours. You're all that, Sherlock Holmes."

The eight friends made their way back to the school, John and Sherlock walking hand in hand.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's done! Hope you enjoyed it. I didn't go the whole "Victor tries to bed Sherlock" route. If it had been Moriarty instead of Victor, I probably wouldn't have changed it, but I didn't want Victor to be a bad guy. And yes, the principal and the dance teacher are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde! LOL
> 
> Please feel free to check out my Tumblr: dread-pirate-redbeard.tumblr.com. Thanks for reading, kudos, comments, everything. -Catie (5AOM) ♡


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